Dying By Surviving Chapter 8
Title: Dying By Surviving
Chapter: 8/15
Rating: PG this part
Pairings: Mark/Roger
Summary: Set three years postRENT. Roger and Mark deal with losing friends differently. How does Mark deal with the knowledge that he may very well be the last one of their group left alive? What if Mark can't take the pressure?
5 hours later; 1:48 pm:
Mark let out a soft moan as he woke, opening his eyes slowly. Sleepily, he realized he was very warm. This was good. Mark was almost always freezing. Probably attributed to the whole, ‘skinny Jewish boy with bad circulation’ thing. He snuggled back down into the firm pillow, breathing in through his nose heavily and drifting back off to the pleasant smell of… Roger!
Mark’s eyes snapped open and he realized that yes, he was currently cuddled up to one Roger Davis, lead guitarist, ex-druggie badass. And he smelled like a combination of cinnamon, trees, hair gel and musk. Not a bad smell. However, Mark was now painfully aware of the fact that Roger’s arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, he himself had a death-grip around Roger’s chest, and his head was rested comfortably on a strong shoulder. Once again, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, except that Roger was decidedly off-limits. And somehow, Mark’s body didn’t really seem to agree with his mind.
Feeling the blush pulsing over his neck and face, he scooted out of the bed gently, careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. Once free, he gave a heartfelt sigh of relief when he realized that Roger hadn’t woken up. His heart still pounding in his chest, he got up and walked to the kitchen, pouring out a glass of water to deal with his suddenly dry mouth.
I hate how you do this to me, he thought at the still-sleeping musician.
It wasn’t fair, really. Mark cared for Roger a lot - loved him, a corner of his mind he didn’t want to acknowledge whispered. However, Roger had always been and always would be off-limits. There were any number of reasons in the past, just as there were any number of reasons now. When he’d first met Roger, it had just been hero-worship, a crush, nothing to base a real relationship off of. After that, there’d been the drug addiction, April’s death, Roger’s withdrawal.
And Mark had no allusions about the role he’d played in making Roger well. He’d just kept him alive long enough so that a young dancer with deep brown eyes could really save him. Mark had never been angry at her for it, had never wondered why all it took for her was a candle and a smile to accomplish the very thing Mark had been working, hoping, even praying for, for more sleepless nights than he could count. Mark had never begrudged Mimi the fact that Roger loved her. Because he loved Mimi too, if not for saving his best friend, than for herself. He’d come to think of her as a sort of spunky younger sibling.
Losing her had been hard, especially so because of that tiny voice in the back of his mind that had said, Now’s your chance. He’d smothered out that feeling, hated it, because he couldn’t really think that, could he? He’d loved Mimi in his own way, missed her just as fiercely as everyone else. Mark refused to allow himself to be selfish, even in his thoughts.
So now where were they? Almost three years after Mimi’s death, ten months since he’d run away from New York - because as much as he hated to admit it, he had been running away, hadn’t he? Refusing to deal with the pain, robbing himself of ten whole months he could have spent with Roger. He smirked over a sip of water. He was such a God damned hypocrite.
He looked up to see Roger walking out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled and sleep clinging to his eyes. He smiled.
“How’d you sleep?” Mark asked, leaning against the counter. Roger yawned , then bent back, stretching.
“Really good, actually,” he replied with a grin. He’d woken up a few minutes earlier, the bed less warm and feeling oddly empty. But he still couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this well had been.
“Mmm,” Mark mumbled into his glass. “You wanna use the shower? Then we can take a tour around the city. I’ll show you my favorite restaurant.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” Roger admitted. Mark pointed him in the direction of the bathroom, then sat down to read the paper.
Anything to keep his mind off the thought of that rush of water hitting smooth, naked skin.
The next day; 3 pm:
“Maaaark,” Chris crooned, waving a hand in front of the spaced-out filmmaker’s face. “Earth to Mark!” Mark snapped to attention.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Jesus, man,” Chris exclaimed with a grin. “That’s the third time today. Memories of a certain blonde guitarist with nimble fingers keeping you occupied? Pleasant memories, I suppose?” Mark blushed.
Truthfully, he had been thinking of Roger. He’d been remembering yesterday, going over the way Roger had smiled, the way he’d loved Mark’s favorite places, the way everything had felt so comfortable between them, so right. For a time, Mark could pretend that he’d never left New York. After a long day of sight-seeing, talking and just hanging around, Roger had finally gone back to his apartment late last night. Mark had walked him back, they’d exchanged numbers and promised to call sometime today. Nothing had felt contrived or faked, and Mark had left with a feeling of warmth washing over him. His friendship with Roger was back on track, and Mark couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.
“It’s not like that, Christian,” he corrected his friend. “He’s just my friend. Well, my best friend from back in New York, but still just a friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Chris deadpanned. He didn’t sound convinced at all. Mark sighed. He didn’t blame him. He was even having a hard time believing himself.
“Listen, Christian, it’s just… complicated. Lay off, would you?”
“’Kay. I can lay off, if you stay focused. Why don’t we take ten, and you can spill everything that happened yesterday with song-boy.”
“He does have a name. It’s Roger.” Christian grinned.
“So protective! How cute!” Mark groaned.
Chris led him to the break room, practically dragging Mark along in his desire to hear all the juicy details. Not that there were any. He sat down and grabbed them a couple coffees. Scooting his chair up close to Mark’s, he took a sip and smiled.
“Okay. You. Talk.”
“What about?”
“I’m getting tired of all this avoidance, Mark. You know damn well what. Start after you left from the concert the other day.”
Mark sighed. He’d known he’d be dodging Christian’s questions all day, but this was just ridiculous. Apparently, he wasn’t going to give up until Mark let him know everything. And knowing Christian, never giving up meant bugging the hell out of Mark until he cracked. Better to get this over with.
He briefly outlined everything that happened, going back and clarifying when Christian asked questions. And Christian asked a lot of questions. He left out some of the more personal parts, but Chris seemed to understand, only pushing for answers where he knew he could get something out of him eventually.
“Hell, Mark. He slept in your bed with you. I’ll eat my hair if he isn’t interested. And you know how fond I am of my hair.”
“I don’t know, Christian. I don’t want to screw up what we’ve got. And I’m sure for Roger, it was nothing but platonic. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“Hmmm… so you’re not denying that you’re attracted?”
“Tha-That wasn’t what I- !” Christian cut him off with a laugh that could only be described as a cackle.
“Ha! I knew it! You do love him!” Mark opened his mouth, and Chris cut him off again. “And don’t you dare try to deny it Cohen! I know you better than you think.”
Mark could only stare, shocked, at his friend. How the hell had Chris figured all this out? Chris sobered, his eyes softening and a slight smile on his lips.
“I could see the way you looked at him, Mark,” he said quietly. “I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid. I don’t know all your reasons for leaving New York, but I do know that a lot of it, if not all of it, had to do with him. He must be really important to you. I hope he lives up to my standards. I wouldn’t give you up to just anyone you know.” He grinned, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.
“Christian…” Mark started.
“I know, I know. We’ve been over this. And it’s okay, Mark. I understand and we weren’t meant to be and all that jazz. But if he hurts you, I swear to God I’ll kill him.” Mark snorted.
“As if you’d dirty your hands. How would you get the bloodstains off your designer shoes?”
“That’s what hit-men are for.” They shared a grin. Christian glanced at the clock.
“Well, ten minutes are up. Back to work. At least think about what I said, okay? It wouldn’t hurt to admit you were in love, even if it was only to yourself.” He left the break room, Mark following, thoughts churning in his head.
Maybe Chris was right.
2 weeks, 3 days later; Saturday night, 6 pm:
Roger walked up the two flights of stairs to Mark’s apartment. It was hard to believe it had been only a little over two weeks since Mark and him had been reunited. They’d fit together again like a pair of old gloves - even though he winced at the cheesy mental analogy. It was true, though. After they’d gotten past the initial problems, everything seemed to be working out. Sure, it was strange having Mark back in his life and not coming home to him at night, not looking up to see Mark walk in chatting excitedly about his day filming. Perhaps the space was just what they needed. It certainly wasn’t hurting, and their friendship was steadily becoming stronger, back to the way it had been before Mark left.
He sighed. Therein lay his problem. Being friends with Mark again was easy, natural, but he’d found himself wanting to go farther than that. Like when Mark’s eyes would light up, or he would give that lopsided grin, or make a comment that was particularly Markish… Pretty much anything he did could make Roger just feel the urge to hug him, to kiss him, and that’s what was scary.
It wasn’t as if being attracted to Mark was frightening. That certainly wasn’t anything new. Roger could remember countless times in the past that he’d been attracted in a romantic way to his best friend, but he’d never really pursued it. Mark deserved better than what he could give him. There’d always been something else on his mind that seemed more pressing, and he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the one truly good thing he had going for him. Funny, even though other things had come and gone, Mark had always been there, a figure at his side, a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a voice in the back of his head.
No, the thing that was scary was the urgency of his old feelings. They were rearing up at him, forcing to be acknowledged, when before he’d always been able to lie to himself or to ignore them completely. He had to hold himself back consciously, to force himself to not reach out, when it felt like it would be the most natural thing to hold hands, to kiss Mark on the cheek when he said or did something particularly endearing.
His hand reached out and grabbed the door leading to the hallway, and he felt his ring press into his skin. That was another thing. Roger wasn’t sure if he was ready to give up Mimi, wasn’t sure if he was truly done grieving yet. It wouldn’t be fair to start a relationship with anyone if he wasn’t ready to move on. He had loved her, passionately, more deeply than he’d loved anyone else in his life. Well, except maybe for Mark.
Roger froze.
I just admitted that I love him, he thought, shocked, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
Leave it to Roger to have an epiphany in a deserted hallway.
After a few moments of collecting himself, Roger started walking slowly again. He decided that there wasn’t anything to do about it now. Resolutely pushing all doubts and newly admitted feelings to the back of his mind, he stopped in front of Mark’s apartment. He rose his hand to knock, pausing before his fist hit the wood when he heard a commotion inside.
“But Maarky! You promised!”
“I didn’t ‘promise’ anything, Christian! I said I might go if there was nothing else to do!”
“Well, what are you doing?”
“Nothing. But that’s beside the fucking point!”
“I think that is the fucking point!”
“Do you just enjoy driving me bat-shit, or…?”
Mark was cut off when Roger finally decided to knock. This sounded interesting. He wondered what in the hell was going on.
A very relieved looking Mark answered the door, a slightly peeved looking Christian, putting out a great effort to look disaffected by anything, in the background.
“Hey, Rog! What’s up?” Mark moved aside and let the musician in.
“Just got outta work. Finally finished recording that new song. Since your place is closer, I figured I’d stop by and see if you were in. Hey, Chris,” he greeted. Chris looked up and beamed at him.
“Good. Well, now that you’re here, Roger my boy, why don’t you try persuading him to come out with me to that new club. I’d even invite you and that band of yours as a reward.” He ended his proposition with a beaming smile.
“Gee, glad to know we’d warrant an invitation,” Roger said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Why do you need my help?”
“Like I said, Rogey, you’re probably the only one who can convince him. He’s in ‘stubborn Jewish mother’ mode,” Christian explained. Mark nearly growled.
“I’m not being stubborn.”
“Fine. You’re being peevish and contrary. C’mon, Mark! I need you to make sure my alcohol intake stays at a level so that I’ll only drunkenly proposition the hot guys!”
“Like you’d need any help with that. Even if you were drunk, high and blind you’d still be able to spot someone wearing last season’s pants and reject him on grounds of a ‘higher moral principle’.” Chris pouted.
“That’s not the point and you know it. When was the last time you went out with me anyway? Ever since hair-boy blows into town, you have no time for me. No offense, Roger,” he added as an afterthought.
“None taken.”
“You are so high maintenance,” Mark groaned.
“So are Ferrari’s. Just shows I’m of a higher caliber than the rest of you mortals.” Both Mark and Roger couldn’t hold back a smirk at that statement.
“I think you should go, Mark. We could all stand to relax. I know everyone’s been working their asses off this week,” Roger reasoned. Mark sighed.
“Fine,” he mumbled.
Christian smiled and pecked the still-scowling Mark on the cheek. Roger’s eyes narrowed involuntarily, a fierce possessiveness twisting his insides. He ignored it as best he could. Slowly, he relaxed fists that had been clenched at his sides.
“There, was that so hard?” Christian was asking a now slightly blushing Mark. He couldn’t decide whether to be amused or saddened by the fact that Mark looked nervously over to see Roger’s reaction. He settled on amused. It was less depressing.
Mark had missed the flash of anger on Roger’s face, but smiled gratefully when the guitarist grinned reassuringly at his nervous glance.
“So, Roger, you gonna come along?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, sure. Let me just run home and call Blake. He’d be pissed if we left him out, especially since Jeff scored a date tonight.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple hours?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
He walked out the door, unable to resist in planting a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing slightly with a smile. Then he was gone.
Mark smiled back at the closed door, and turned around to see Christian staring at him intently. There was a disturbing look of rapt concentration on his face. Oh, shit. This couldn’t be good.
“Christian?” he squeaked out. The grin that lit his friend’s face was positively evil. He stalked up to Mark, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the bathroom.
“Come, my dear Miss Doolittle. We have work to do.”
2 hours, 17 minutes later:
Roger knocked on Mark’s door for the second time that night, backing up to wait and bumping into Blake slightly. Once he’d finally gotten a hold of the bass player, he’d happily agreed to come out with them. Well, maybe happily wasn’t the right word.
“I mean, can you believe that pretender went and asked out Donna? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Jeff’s ma boy and all, but that don’t give him the right to be huntin’ on my grounds, if you know what I’m sayin’,” Blake droned on behind him. He hadn’t stopped since showing up at Roger’s apartment. Roger prayed to all that was holy that Blake managed to find a girl to keep him occupied tonight, or this would be exhausting.
“I know, Blake,” he said, indulging him for now.
“I mean, shit man, a fine sistah like Donna… way too much for Jeff to handle. Probably end up passin’ me the reigns he if knows what’s good for him…”
Roger was just about to whirl on Blake and tell him that just because he’d discovered the use of metaphors recently didn’t mean he had to use them all the time, when the door opened. Chris stood there, looking like a contented cat who’d just discovered a very large bowl of cream. It made Roger nervous. Nervous enough that he’d just used another metaphor in his thoughts of what Chris looked like. Blake was rubbing off on him. Fuck.
“Hello boys! Blake! So glad you could come!” Chris announced brightly. He’d hung out with Blake a few times after meeting him during the interview, and oddly, the two had seemed to hit it off. Roger smiled. Their arrogance certainly matched.
“How’s it hangin’, dog?” Blake asked, gripping Christian’s hand, pulling them together and thumping him on the back.
“I’m perfect, thanks for asking. You two certainly look less… hetero… than you usually do. A vast improvement,” Chris complimented.
Roger snorted. Blake had simply put on a clean shirt, some black slacks and intense after-shave. His goatee was just as unkempt, five o’clock shadow running down his neck, and his dreadlocks were as long and unruly as always.
Chris had definitely put an effort into dressing up, but he always did, and there wasn’t much of a change from two hours ago. He was just naturally stunning, and he didn’t need anything to dress that up. Well, besides the hair. But that was such an integral part of Chris that it wasn’t worth taking note of.
Roger had changed into one of his favorite stage outfits. A pair of worn jeans hugged his hips, held up by a studded belt. A form-fitting vintage t-shirt was hidden beneath his ever-present leather jacket. He’d tried to mess with his hair a little, but it had just come out looking more messy than usual. Oddly, the ‘just rolled out of bed’ look really worked for him.
“Shit, man. You know I always look hot,” Blake stated with a grin. Roger wondered if they’d try to out-ego each other. That would be interesting.
“Don’t be so modest, Blake,” Christian beamed, and was about to continue, when Roger cut him off.
“Hey, are we ready to go? Where’s Mark?”
“Oh, right. Mark! Get your cute ass out here!” Chris hollered in the direction of the bedroom. Roger’s eyebrow twitched. The door opened a crack.
“I have told you how much I hate you, right?” Mark muttered through the door, still out of sight.
“In explicit detail,” Chris assured him. There was a tired sigh, and then the door swung the rest of the way open.
Roger promptly forgot how to breathe.
Mark looked… hot. There was no other way to describe it. Tight leather pants clung to his small frame, topped by a bright blue silk button up shirt that matched his eyes perfectly. A simple leather necklace rested on his collarbone, gracing the soft, pale skin left showing from the two top buttons being left undone. There was something different about his hair - it looked slightly more disheveled than the normal orderly spikes. And (Roger swallowed a dry lump that had formed in his throat) he had on the tiniest bit of eyeliner - just enough to make his blue eyes look even bluer behind his glasses.
“Damn,” Blake breathed in approval. “What happened to you?”
“I was attacked by a rabid homosexual,” Mark answered, sparing a glare at Chris.
“You’re welcome!” Chris answered with a grin.
“I just hope I get through this evening with my dignity intact,” Mark muttered.
“You’re such a whiner Mark! You look…” Christian paused, searching for the correct words.
“Really good,” Roger supplied. “Jesus, Mark. You should stray away from the Jewish filmmaker look more often.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mark muttered sarcastically, but there was just the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks.
“Well, kiddies, enough making goo-goo eyes at each other. Let’s get going!” Chris declared, leading the way out of the apartment.
He held the door open for everyone and trailed behind, making a note of the slightly glazed and hungry look in Roger’s eyes as he stole a glance at Mark’s ass. Christian grinned maniacally.
That had been easier than he thought.
Chapter: 8/15
Rating: PG this part
Pairings: Mark/Roger
Summary: Set three years postRENT. Roger and Mark deal with losing friends differently. How does Mark deal with the knowledge that he may very well be the last one of their group left alive? What if Mark can't take the pressure?
5 hours later; 1:48 pm:
Mark let out a soft moan as he woke, opening his eyes slowly. Sleepily, he realized he was very warm. This was good. Mark was almost always freezing. Probably attributed to the whole, ‘skinny Jewish boy with bad circulation’ thing. He snuggled back down into the firm pillow, breathing in through his nose heavily and drifting back off to the pleasant smell of… Roger!
Mark’s eyes snapped open and he realized that yes, he was currently cuddled up to one Roger Davis, lead guitarist, ex-druggie badass. And he smelled like a combination of cinnamon, trees, hair gel and musk. Not a bad smell. However, Mark was now painfully aware of the fact that Roger’s arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, he himself had a death-grip around Roger’s chest, and his head was rested comfortably on a strong shoulder. Once again, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, except that Roger was decidedly off-limits. And somehow, Mark’s body didn’t really seem to agree with his mind.
Feeling the blush pulsing over his neck and face, he scooted out of the bed gently, careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. Once free, he gave a heartfelt sigh of relief when he realized that Roger hadn’t woken up. His heart still pounding in his chest, he got up and walked to the kitchen, pouring out a glass of water to deal with his suddenly dry mouth.
I hate how you do this to me, he thought at the still-sleeping musician.
It wasn’t fair, really. Mark cared for Roger a lot - loved him, a corner of his mind he didn’t want to acknowledge whispered. However, Roger had always been and always would be off-limits. There were any number of reasons in the past, just as there were any number of reasons now. When he’d first met Roger, it had just been hero-worship, a crush, nothing to base a real relationship off of. After that, there’d been the drug addiction, April’s death, Roger’s withdrawal.
And Mark had no allusions about the role he’d played in making Roger well. He’d just kept him alive long enough so that a young dancer with deep brown eyes could really save him. Mark had never been angry at her for it, had never wondered why all it took for her was a candle and a smile to accomplish the very thing Mark had been working, hoping, even praying for, for more sleepless nights than he could count. Mark had never begrudged Mimi the fact that Roger loved her. Because he loved Mimi too, if not for saving his best friend, than for herself. He’d come to think of her as a sort of spunky younger sibling.
Losing her had been hard, especially so because of that tiny voice in the back of his mind that had said, Now’s your chance. He’d smothered out that feeling, hated it, because he couldn’t really think that, could he? He’d loved Mimi in his own way, missed her just as fiercely as everyone else. Mark refused to allow himself to be selfish, even in his thoughts.
So now where were they? Almost three years after Mimi’s death, ten months since he’d run away from New York - because as much as he hated to admit it, he had been running away, hadn’t he? Refusing to deal with the pain, robbing himself of ten whole months he could have spent with Roger. He smirked over a sip of water. He was such a God damned hypocrite.
He looked up to see Roger walking out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled and sleep clinging to his eyes. He smiled.
“How’d you sleep?” Mark asked, leaning against the counter. Roger yawned , then bent back, stretching.
“Really good, actually,” he replied with a grin. He’d woken up a few minutes earlier, the bed less warm and feeling oddly empty. But he still couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this well had been.
“Mmm,” Mark mumbled into his glass. “You wanna use the shower? Then we can take a tour around the city. I’ll show you my favorite restaurant.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” Roger admitted. Mark pointed him in the direction of the bathroom, then sat down to read the paper.
Anything to keep his mind off the thought of that rush of water hitting smooth, naked skin.
The next day; 3 pm:
“Maaaark,” Chris crooned, waving a hand in front of the spaced-out filmmaker’s face. “Earth to Mark!” Mark snapped to attention.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Jesus, man,” Chris exclaimed with a grin. “That’s the third time today. Memories of a certain blonde guitarist with nimble fingers keeping you occupied? Pleasant memories, I suppose?” Mark blushed.
Truthfully, he had been thinking of Roger. He’d been remembering yesterday, going over the way Roger had smiled, the way he’d loved Mark’s favorite places, the way everything had felt so comfortable between them, so right. For a time, Mark could pretend that he’d never left New York. After a long day of sight-seeing, talking and just hanging around, Roger had finally gone back to his apartment late last night. Mark had walked him back, they’d exchanged numbers and promised to call sometime today. Nothing had felt contrived or faked, and Mark had left with a feeling of warmth washing over him. His friendship with Roger was back on track, and Mark couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.
“It’s not like that, Christian,” he corrected his friend. “He’s just my friend. Well, my best friend from back in New York, but still just a friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Chris deadpanned. He didn’t sound convinced at all. Mark sighed. He didn’t blame him. He was even having a hard time believing himself.
“Listen, Christian, it’s just… complicated. Lay off, would you?”
“’Kay. I can lay off, if you stay focused. Why don’t we take ten, and you can spill everything that happened yesterday with song-boy.”
“He does have a name. It’s Roger.” Christian grinned.
“So protective! How cute!” Mark groaned.
Chris led him to the break room, practically dragging Mark along in his desire to hear all the juicy details. Not that there were any. He sat down and grabbed them a couple coffees. Scooting his chair up close to Mark’s, he took a sip and smiled.
“Okay. You. Talk.”
“What about?”
“I’m getting tired of all this avoidance, Mark. You know damn well what. Start after you left from the concert the other day.”
Mark sighed. He’d known he’d be dodging Christian’s questions all day, but this was just ridiculous. Apparently, he wasn’t going to give up until Mark let him know everything. And knowing Christian, never giving up meant bugging the hell out of Mark until he cracked. Better to get this over with.
He briefly outlined everything that happened, going back and clarifying when Christian asked questions. And Christian asked a lot of questions. He left out some of the more personal parts, but Chris seemed to understand, only pushing for answers where he knew he could get something out of him eventually.
“Hell, Mark. He slept in your bed with you. I’ll eat my hair if he isn’t interested. And you know how fond I am of my hair.”
“I don’t know, Christian. I don’t want to screw up what we’ve got. And I’m sure for Roger, it was nothing but platonic. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“Hmmm… so you’re not denying that you’re attracted?”
“Tha-That wasn’t what I- !” Christian cut him off with a laugh that could only be described as a cackle.
“Ha! I knew it! You do love him!” Mark opened his mouth, and Chris cut him off again. “And don’t you dare try to deny it Cohen! I know you better than you think.”
Mark could only stare, shocked, at his friend. How the hell had Chris figured all this out? Chris sobered, his eyes softening and a slight smile on his lips.
“I could see the way you looked at him, Mark,” he said quietly. “I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid. I don’t know all your reasons for leaving New York, but I do know that a lot of it, if not all of it, had to do with him. He must be really important to you. I hope he lives up to my standards. I wouldn’t give you up to just anyone you know.” He grinned, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.
“Christian…” Mark started.
“I know, I know. We’ve been over this. And it’s okay, Mark. I understand and we weren’t meant to be and all that jazz. But if he hurts you, I swear to God I’ll kill him.” Mark snorted.
“As if you’d dirty your hands. How would you get the bloodstains off your designer shoes?”
“That’s what hit-men are for.” They shared a grin. Christian glanced at the clock.
“Well, ten minutes are up. Back to work. At least think about what I said, okay? It wouldn’t hurt to admit you were in love, even if it was only to yourself.” He left the break room, Mark following, thoughts churning in his head.
Maybe Chris was right.
2 weeks, 3 days later; Saturday night, 6 pm:
Roger walked up the two flights of stairs to Mark’s apartment. It was hard to believe it had been only a little over two weeks since Mark and him had been reunited. They’d fit together again like a pair of old gloves - even though he winced at the cheesy mental analogy. It was true, though. After they’d gotten past the initial problems, everything seemed to be working out. Sure, it was strange having Mark back in his life and not coming home to him at night, not looking up to see Mark walk in chatting excitedly about his day filming. Perhaps the space was just what they needed. It certainly wasn’t hurting, and their friendship was steadily becoming stronger, back to the way it had been before Mark left.
He sighed. Therein lay his problem. Being friends with Mark again was easy, natural, but he’d found himself wanting to go farther than that. Like when Mark’s eyes would light up, or he would give that lopsided grin, or make a comment that was particularly Markish… Pretty much anything he did could make Roger just feel the urge to hug him, to kiss him, and that’s what was scary.
It wasn’t as if being attracted to Mark was frightening. That certainly wasn’t anything new. Roger could remember countless times in the past that he’d been attracted in a romantic way to his best friend, but he’d never really pursued it. Mark deserved better than what he could give him. There’d always been something else on his mind that seemed more pressing, and he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the one truly good thing he had going for him. Funny, even though other things had come and gone, Mark had always been there, a figure at his side, a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a voice in the back of his head.
No, the thing that was scary was the urgency of his old feelings. They were rearing up at him, forcing to be acknowledged, when before he’d always been able to lie to himself or to ignore them completely. He had to hold himself back consciously, to force himself to not reach out, when it felt like it would be the most natural thing to hold hands, to kiss Mark on the cheek when he said or did something particularly endearing.
His hand reached out and grabbed the door leading to the hallway, and he felt his ring press into his skin. That was another thing. Roger wasn’t sure if he was ready to give up Mimi, wasn’t sure if he was truly done grieving yet. It wouldn’t be fair to start a relationship with anyone if he wasn’t ready to move on. He had loved her, passionately, more deeply than he’d loved anyone else in his life. Well, except maybe for Mark.
Roger froze.
I just admitted that I love him, he thought, shocked, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
Leave it to Roger to have an epiphany in a deserted hallway.
After a few moments of collecting himself, Roger started walking slowly again. He decided that there wasn’t anything to do about it now. Resolutely pushing all doubts and newly admitted feelings to the back of his mind, he stopped in front of Mark’s apartment. He rose his hand to knock, pausing before his fist hit the wood when he heard a commotion inside.
“But Maarky! You promised!”
“I didn’t ‘promise’ anything, Christian! I said I might go if there was nothing else to do!”
“Well, what are you doing?”
“Nothing. But that’s beside the fucking point!”
“I think that is the fucking point!”
“Do you just enjoy driving me bat-shit, or…?”
Mark was cut off when Roger finally decided to knock. This sounded interesting. He wondered what in the hell was going on.
A very relieved looking Mark answered the door, a slightly peeved looking Christian, putting out a great effort to look disaffected by anything, in the background.
“Hey, Rog! What’s up?” Mark moved aside and let the musician in.
“Just got outta work. Finally finished recording that new song. Since your place is closer, I figured I’d stop by and see if you were in. Hey, Chris,” he greeted. Chris looked up and beamed at him.
“Good. Well, now that you’re here, Roger my boy, why don’t you try persuading him to come out with me to that new club. I’d even invite you and that band of yours as a reward.” He ended his proposition with a beaming smile.
“Gee, glad to know we’d warrant an invitation,” Roger said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Why do you need my help?”
“Like I said, Rogey, you’re probably the only one who can convince him. He’s in ‘stubborn Jewish mother’ mode,” Christian explained. Mark nearly growled.
“I’m not being stubborn.”
“Fine. You’re being peevish and contrary. C’mon, Mark! I need you to make sure my alcohol intake stays at a level so that I’ll only drunkenly proposition the hot guys!”
“Like you’d need any help with that. Even if you were drunk, high and blind you’d still be able to spot someone wearing last season’s pants and reject him on grounds of a ‘higher moral principle’.” Chris pouted.
“That’s not the point and you know it. When was the last time you went out with me anyway? Ever since hair-boy blows into town, you have no time for me. No offense, Roger,” he added as an afterthought.
“None taken.”
“You are so high maintenance,” Mark groaned.
“So are Ferrari’s. Just shows I’m of a higher caliber than the rest of you mortals.” Both Mark and Roger couldn’t hold back a smirk at that statement.
“I think you should go, Mark. We could all stand to relax. I know everyone’s been working their asses off this week,” Roger reasoned. Mark sighed.
“Fine,” he mumbled.
Christian smiled and pecked the still-scowling Mark on the cheek. Roger’s eyes narrowed involuntarily, a fierce possessiveness twisting his insides. He ignored it as best he could. Slowly, he relaxed fists that had been clenched at his sides.
“There, was that so hard?” Christian was asking a now slightly blushing Mark. He couldn’t decide whether to be amused or saddened by the fact that Mark looked nervously over to see Roger’s reaction. He settled on amused. It was less depressing.
Mark had missed the flash of anger on Roger’s face, but smiled gratefully when the guitarist grinned reassuringly at his nervous glance.
“So, Roger, you gonna come along?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, sure. Let me just run home and call Blake. He’d be pissed if we left him out, especially since Jeff scored a date tonight.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple hours?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
He walked out the door, unable to resist in planting a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing slightly with a smile. Then he was gone.
Mark smiled back at the closed door, and turned around to see Christian staring at him intently. There was a disturbing look of rapt concentration on his face. Oh, shit. This couldn’t be good.
“Christian?” he squeaked out. The grin that lit his friend’s face was positively evil. He stalked up to Mark, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the bathroom.
“Come, my dear Miss Doolittle. We have work to do.”
2 hours, 17 minutes later:
Roger knocked on Mark’s door for the second time that night, backing up to wait and bumping into Blake slightly. Once he’d finally gotten a hold of the bass player, he’d happily agreed to come out with them. Well, maybe happily wasn’t the right word.
“I mean, can you believe that pretender went and asked out Donna? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Jeff’s ma boy and all, but that don’t give him the right to be huntin’ on my grounds, if you know what I’m sayin’,” Blake droned on behind him. He hadn’t stopped since showing up at Roger’s apartment. Roger prayed to all that was holy that Blake managed to find a girl to keep him occupied tonight, or this would be exhausting.
“I know, Blake,” he said, indulging him for now.
“I mean, shit man, a fine sistah like Donna… way too much for Jeff to handle. Probably end up passin’ me the reigns he if knows what’s good for him…”
Roger was just about to whirl on Blake and tell him that just because he’d discovered the use of metaphors recently didn’t mean he had to use them all the time, when the door opened. Chris stood there, looking like a contented cat who’d just discovered a very large bowl of cream. It made Roger nervous. Nervous enough that he’d just used another metaphor in his thoughts of what Chris looked like. Blake was rubbing off on him. Fuck.
“Hello boys! Blake! So glad you could come!” Chris announced brightly. He’d hung out with Blake a few times after meeting him during the interview, and oddly, the two had seemed to hit it off. Roger smiled. Their arrogance certainly matched.
“How’s it hangin’, dog?” Blake asked, gripping Christian’s hand, pulling them together and thumping him on the back.
“I’m perfect, thanks for asking. You two certainly look less… hetero… than you usually do. A vast improvement,” Chris complimented.
Roger snorted. Blake had simply put on a clean shirt, some black slacks and intense after-shave. His goatee was just as unkempt, five o’clock shadow running down his neck, and his dreadlocks were as long and unruly as always.
Chris had definitely put an effort into dressing up, but he always did, and there wasn’t much of a change from two hours ago. He was just naturally stunning, and he didn’t need anything to dress that up. Well, besides the hair. But that was such an integral part of Chris that it wasn’t worth taking note of.
Roger had changed into one of his favorite stage outfits. A pair of worn jeans hugged his hips, held up by a studded belt. A form-fitting vintage t-shirt was hidden beneath his ever-present leather jacket. He’d tried to mess with his hair a little, but it had just come out looking more messy than usual. Oddly, the ‘just rolled out of bed’ look really worked for him.
“Shit, man. You know I always look hot,” Blake stated with a grin. Roger wondered if they’d try to out-ego each other. That would be interesting.
“Don’t be so modest, Blake,” Christian beamed, and was about to continue, when Roger cut him off.
“Hey, are we ready to go? Where’s Mark?”
“Oh, right. Mark! Get your cute ass out here!” Chris hollered in the direction of the bedroom. Roger’s eyebrow twitched. The door opened a crack.
“I have told you how much I hate you, right?” Mark muttered through the door, still out of sight.
“In explicit detail,” Chris assured him. There was a tired sigh, and then the door swung the rest of the way open.
Roger promptly forgot how to breathe.
Mark looked… hot. There was no other way to describe it. Tight leather pants clung to his small frame, topped by a bright blue silk button up shirt that matched his eyes perfectly. A simple leather necklace rested on his collarbone, gracing the soft, pale skin left showing from the two top buttons being left undone. There was something different about his hair - it looked slightly more disheveled than the normal orderly spikes. And (Roger swallowed a dry lump that had formed in his throat) he had on the tiniest bit of eyeliner - just enough to make his blue eyes look even bluer behind his glasses.
“Damn,” Blake breathed in approval. “What happened to you?”
“I was attacked by a rabid homosexual,” Mark answered, sparing a glare at Chris.
“You’re welcome!” Chris answered with a grin.
“I just hope I get through this evening with my dignity intact,” Mark muttered.
“You’re such a whiner Mark! You look…” Christian paused, searching for the correct words.
“Really good,” Roger supplied. “Jesus, Mark. You should stray away from the Jewish filmmaker look more often.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mark muttered sarcastically, but there was just the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks.
“Well, kiddies, enough making goo-goo eyes at each other. Let’s get going!” Chris declared, leading the way out of the apartment.
He held the door open for everyone and trailed behind, making a note of the slightly glazed and hungry look in Roger’s eyes as he stole a glance at Mark’s ass. Christian grinned maniacally.
That had been easier than he thought.